The Puzzle
by allthingsdecent
Summary: A new spin on Recession Proof: House gets drunk, decides to attend Cuddy's award gala. Bad idea, House.


**This is my second stab at a post Recession Proof fic. (The other one was Rebels.) I know House's speech to Cuddy at the end of that episode is somewhat controversial, but I liked it. I found it true to character: Both a declaration of love and a deeply, deeply screwed up thing to say. (Of course later, when I realized that TPTB weren't actually interested in exploring this conflict between House and Cuddy—or really anything between House and Cuddy—I got pissed.) (They basically just wanted him to profess his undying love so that his subsequent meltdown would be all the more dramatic. Mother effers!)**

**So anyway, ahem . . . where was I? Yeah, this fic. in it, House actually attends the awards gala. However, don't get too excited. There are no mariachi bands or slow dances or puking rainbows (well, at least not at first). He's drunk off his ass and makes a fool of himself! Good times. **

"And keep em coming!" House said, slamming his hand against the bar.

The bartender, whose name was Fred, gave him a skeptical look.

"Slow down there, pal. It's not a race."

House looked around the bar with exaggerated confusion.

"I'm sorry, I was under the impression that you were a bartender. And that I was in a bar. If you are, in fact, a priest and this is a house of worship, I will gladly take my money elsewhere."

Fred gave a conciliatory shrug and filled House's glass with bourbon.

"It's just that I'm just not used to seeing you pound them down quite so quickly," he said. "Actually I'm not used to seeing much of you at all lately. Where ya been?"

Fred was in his late 20s—both prematurely bald and prematurely paunched. He was chatty, too—not House's favorite quality in a bartender—but he gave generous pours, so House tolerated him.

"I've been busy," House said, chugging his drink.

"Busy is good," Fred said.

"Yes, it is," House said.

"But you're not busy tonight, huh?"

"Apparently not, genius," House said.

"So where is she?" Fred said, with a knowing grin.

House played dumb.

"She who?" he said.

"The one who's been keeping you so…busy."

House sighed a bit, scratched his head.

"She's getting an award," he said finally.

"And you're upset because you weren't invited to the ceremony?"

"Who says I'm upset?"

"Four bourbons in 30 minutes says you're upset," Fred said.

House scratched his head again. With each successive scratch, his hair was getting more and more out of control.

"I was invited to the ceremony," he slurred. "I just _chose_ not to attend."

"Why not?"

"My patient died today."

"Oh. That sucks," Fred said. "Still doesn't explain why. . ."

"My patient died because I was too busy trying to book a mariachi band for tonight's gala. Because I was trying to make things perfect. As usual. For _her_."

"And this is somehow your girlfriend's fault . . .why again?"

"Indirectly," House admitted.

"But you really like this girl?"

House gave a little snort to indicate that "like" was an understatement.

"Okay, so you _love_ this girl."

House scowled a bit.

"What's it to you?"

"Nothing. But you should probably get your ass to the ceremony then," Fred said.

"Awards are meaningless and stupid," House said.

"She obviously doesn't think so."

House mumbled something about Fred not knowing a damn thing about what Cuddy thought.

"All I'm saying is, if my girlfriend got an award and I was a no-show, she'd quickly become my _ex_ girlfriend."

"Cuddy's not vindictive like that."

Fred was polishing a glass, but he stopped—mid polish.

"But if you love her, you should support her, man. I mean, that's what being in a relationship is all about, right?"

House looked at him. Something finally clicked.

"You're right," he said, rising unsteadily. "I need to be there for her!"

"Absolutely," Fred said. "Just let me brew you some strong coffee."

But House ignored him. He grabbed his cane and staggered toward the door.

####

House changed into his tuxedo in the parking lot of the bar.

He was too drunk to be self conscious about the fact that he was essentially stripping down in public. (Besides, it was dark. And no one went to this bar anyway.) But his leg was killing him. Cripples weren't meant to get undressed in cramped cars.

Of course, this thought reminded him of the last, more pleasant, time he had stripped down in a car. He and Cuddy had been driving home from one of those fancy farm-to-table restaurants in upstate New Jersey—her choice, naturally. Despite his instinctive hatred for such places, it had been a perfect night—Cuddy had been tipsy and giggly and girlishly affectionate—and they were both so horny and hot for each other, they'd finally just pulled over to the side of the road to have sex. (Yes, his leg had hurt like hell. But that night had proven, once and for all, that no leg pain was a match for the extreme pleasure of Lisa Cuddy sucking on your cock.)

Now, he somehow managed to change into his tuxedo pants, the belt, and the white shirt—however, the bow tie was proving to be problematic. (Even when sober, he wasn't particularly good at tying them.)

Oh well, screw it. A dangling bow tie would make him look rakishly charming, he decided. He glanced at himself in the rear view mirror. Hair: Standing up on end. Eyes: Glassy. Beard: Overgrown. Still, it was the best she was going to get tonight.

He revved the engine. Hopefully he wasn't too late.

#####

"I'll give it to my mother," Cuddy was saying from the podium, holding her award. "So she can put it on display case right next to my finger paintings and my second place ribbon from the New York State junior spelling bee—I was robbed by the way." There was laughter. "Bobby Aikman won with the word 'unctuous.' Who can't spell unctuous? I got 'eudaemonist.' That's E-U-D-A-E-M-O-N-I-S-T, in case you were wondering. I'll go to my grave knowing how to spell that word." More laughter.

Then Cuddy's smile turned sincere: "This honor means so much to me. I'd like to thank you all individually but just in case I can't: THANK YOU!"

She gave a charming little grin—she had enchanted the crowd, as usual. As she stepped off the stage, there was appreciative applause. And then, from the back of the room, there was loud, enthusiastic cheering and whooping, more fitting for a monster truck rally than a formal awards gala.

House.

She had a rush of conflicting thoughts: For one, relieved that he had finally shown. Then, slightly embarrassed that he was making such a ruckus. Next, she noticed his appearance: Normally, House looked devastatingly handsome in a tux. Tonight, well, it looked like he had gotten dressed in a car.

She stepped right up to him.

"Congratulations, gorgeous!" he said enveloping her in a sloppy hug.

"You're drunk!" she said, aghast. She pulled away, trying not to look conspicuously alarmed.

"I may have had a few pre-gala cocktails," House said. "But the important thing is: I am here for you. Because I love and support you."

She raised an eyebrow—more annoyed than amused by his declaration of love.

"Come sit," she said, grabbing his arm. "They're about to serve dinner."

Cuddy was sitting at a table with the various board members of the New Jersey State Medical Awards committee, including Sanford Wells, the chair of PPTH. Wilson was there, too, thankfully. House spotted his team—Chase, Taub, Foreman, and Masters—at a separate table. He had a pang. He'd rather sit with them, throwing verbal spitballs. Instead, he had to sit at the grownups table, with the guest of honor.

"Look who decided to show up," Sanford Wells said.

"I've actually been here the whole time," House said. "Long line for the men's room."

"But a shorter line for the bar, apparently," Wells said, knowingly.

Wilson gulped.

"You must be so proud of your girlfriend," another trustee, Jacob Pembroke, said to House.

"Always," House said, truthfully.

"As you should be," Wells said. "The Woman of the Year award is a rare achievement."

"Not that rare, I guess," House cracked. "Since they give one out every year."

"It's a very prestigious award for the hospital," Pembroke said, eyeing him.

Now the entire table was staring at House. He was beginning to sweat. He knew what he was supposed to say: That the Woman of the Year Award was a remarkable thing, a feather in PPTH's cap, a crowning achievement for all those who were lucky enough to be in its midst.

Instead he said: "It's kind of a bogus award, when you think about it."

Now Wilson put his head in his hands. Cuddy glared at him.

"How so?" said Wells in a prickly sort of way.

"I mean, you—Sanford Wells, are on the voting committee. Don't you think it's a little self-serving that you chose Lisa Cuddy, the dean of _your hospital_ as this year's recipient."

"There are twenty voting members on the committee," Wells said confidently. "My vote is just one out of twenty."

Wilson was staring at House, telepathically trying to convey the words: Let. It. Go.

But House was on a roll now:

"But we all know how it works, right? This year you give it to Dr. Cuddy. Next year, you give it to the head of obstetrics at Mercy General"—Pembroke's hospital. "The next year you give it to somebody else on the committee. And everyone gets bragging rights and a shiny new award for their display case."

Wells looked furious.

"That's hardly the way it. . ." he started.

But they were interrupted by a handsome man—mid thirties, jet black hair, perfectly tailored tux—who had emerged tableside.

"How much did you pay extra to sit with the guest of honor?" he said, good-naturedly, slapping Pembroke on the back.

Pembroke laughed.

"You need to be a boardmember, son. All in good time."

Then Pembroke turned to the table.

"This is my son Jake. He's a member of our junior committee."

"How cute," House sneered.

"Any chance the Woman of the Year would give a lowly junior committee member like myself the honor of a dance?" Jake said, charmingly, to Cuddy.

Cuddy looked at House, who was tipping his glass back, trying to get the last drops of alcohol off the ice cubes.

"I'm, uh, here with my boyfriend," she said, slightly mortified.

Jake sized up the grizzled drunk guy with the cane, admittedly surprised.

"I promise to bring her back in one piece," he said to House.

House rolled his eyes.

"It's a free country," he said, grouchily.

Jake gallantly extended his arm to Cuddy. She took it, reluctantly, and they walked onto the dance floor.

Meanwhile, Pembroke, Wells, and their wives saw some friends at another table and headed over to say hi.

Wilson took this opportunity to slip into the now unoccupied chair next to House.

"You think maybe you should ease up on the drinks?" he whispered.

"Why is everyone telling me to stop drinking?" House said. "If anything, _more_ alcohol is required to get me through this hellish night."

"It's just that your behavior is a little. . .aggressive," Wilson said.

"Since when is telling the truth being aggressive?" House said.

"Since . . . always," Wilson said.

At that moment, House narrowed his eyes, looking onto the dance floor.

"I don't like the way that little trust fund twerp is touching her," he said, peering at Jake and Cuddy.

Wilson looked up.

"Looks fine to me," he said, with false breeziness.

House continued to watch.

"His hands keep threatening to go below the border," House said.

"You're imagining things," Wilson said. "Have a breadstick. It'll absorb some of the alcohol." He was trying to refocus House back to the table.

House scowled.

"He just touched her ass!" he said.

"No, he didn't!" Wilson said. But it was too late. House had already popped up and began limping quickly, if unsteadily, toward Cuddy and Jake on the dance floor.

Wilson watched, with a sense of inevitable dread, what unfolded next: House barked something to Jake. Jake looked up, stunned, then began barking something back. Then Wilson saw Jake kind of manhandle House's arm, as though in an attempt to steer him back to the table. Then House wriggled free, reared back and swung wildly at Jake, who ducked out of the way and clocked House squarely in the eye with his fist.

House staggered and almost fell, but was caught by Wilson, who had come running onto the dance floor.

By now, everyone had stopped dancing to watch the scene: The band was still playing, however, Titanic-style.

House started charging toward Jake again, but Wilson held him back by the arms.

"Wilson, you got let me get one good crack in!" House said. Blood was trickling from a cut over his eye. "That was a cheap shot."

"Everything's a cheap shot when you're fighting a crippled drunk," Jake said.

"Hey!" Cuddy said.

"You little piece of. . ." House charged toward him again, but Wilson—now aided by Chase and Foreman who had come over at the first sign of trouble—was easily able to hold him back.

"Wilson, get him out of here," Cuddy hissed, on the verge of tears.

"Come on, House," Wilson said. "Time to go to bed."

And they dragged House off the dance floor.

######

"Where are we going?" House said, strapped into the passenger seat of Wilson's Oldsmobile, his head pressed against the window.

"I'm taking you home," Wilson said.

"I don't want to go my home. I want to go to Cuddy's home."

"Bad idea," Wilson said.

"I need to see her. I need to explain everything."

"You can explain everything in the morning, _after_ you sober up."

"So you think she's mad at me?"

Wilson gave a loud, sarcastic laugh in reply.

"I was the hero!" House protested. "I saved the evening from hypocrisy and from entitled creeps groping at her ass."

"Yes, I'm sure she'll see it that way."

House looked out the window. The car was spinning. He briefly thought he might hurl.

"I really fucked up, huh?" he said quietly.

######

There was no way to fully recover when your boyfriend disrupts an entire gala by acting like a complete ass, but Cuddy did the best she could. She apologized to both Pembrokes—Jr. and Sr.—and explained to everyone that, on those rare occasions that House lost a patient, he tended to take it very hard. (This had the added bonus of being true.) She made charming jokes: "I thought the party needed a little excitement!" and danced with more trustees and smiled and schmoozed and never let them see her sweat. Then, when she felt she had done all she could to smooth things over, she drove herself home. (She actually considered stopping by House's apartment so she could break up with him ON THE SPOT, but decided she'd wait until morning when both of them were perfectly sober.)

She was surprised then, when she pulled up to her own home and saw a lanky man sitting on her stairs, dressed in tuxedo pants and a partially unbuttoned white shirt, a large Styrofoam cup next to him, his legs parted and his head in his hands.

"What the hell are you doing here, House?" she said.

He looked up when he saw her. His eyes widened.

"I fucked up," he said.

"Big time. Go home," she said.

"I'm sorry," he moaned.

"I can't believe Wilson even brought you here. He knows better."

"He didn't. I walked."

"From your apartment? That's three miles!"

"I needed to see you."

She considered him.

"Why didn't you at least let yourself in? You know where the spare key is."

"I wasn't sure you'd want me in your house," he admitted.

"You were right," she said.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I suck. I'm the worst. I hate myself."

With a sigh, she sat down next to him.

She was wearing a skintight black dress. She had to practically roll it up her legs so she could bend enough to sit beside him.

He looked at her sadly, as if her gorgeousness was somehow injuring him further.

"What the fuck happened tonight?" she said.

She picked up the cup that was next to him and smelled it: Coffee.

"I . . .lost a patient," he said.

"I know you lost a patient. Not quite sure why you had to take it out on the entire New Jersey State Medical Awards gala. And on me."

"I . . .got it in my head that it was your fault."

"_My_ fault?"

"Indirectly. . ." House said.

"How is you losing your patient my fault?"

"Because you distract me. Because you're . . . my new puzzle."

"When _haven't_ I been your puzzle?" she said, only half-joking. "You've been studying me like a specimen under a microscope since the day we met."

House shook his head.

"That was different. Now I'm not just trying to figure you out. I'm trying to figure _us _out. I'm trying to figure out how to make you happy."

"Well, you did a really shitty job of it tonight."

House groaned, put his head in his hands again.

This time, his hand caught the top of his eye, just where Jake Pembroke had punched him.

"Ouch," he said quietly.

She peeled his hands off his face, looked at his eye. It was swollen and red and there was a still slightly raw cut under his eyebrow.

"Alright, come inside House. Let's patch you up."

Her voice conveyed more duty than love, but it was a start. He gratefully followed her inside and into the bathroom.

He sat on the toilet and watched as she pulled a first aid kid out from under the sink and turned on the faucet. He took note of the fact that she tested the temperature of the water first, before wetting the washcloth.

She began to clean his eye. Both of them were struck, instantly, by the similarity to that first night, back in his apartment. But this was different. Cuddy wasn't flush with the excitement of newly acknowledged love. She was weary with the sadness of when that love disappoints you.

"Why do you think you have to work so hard to make me happy?" she said, finally. She was looking at the cut over his eye, trying to determine if it needed stitches. It didn't.

"Because I do," he replied.

"It's not that hard," she said. "Just be nice to me. And don't crash galas and beat up the hosts."

She used a styptic pencil to seal the wound and then found an appropriate bandage.

"None of this comes easily to me," he admitted.

"I know it doesn't, House," she said. "But you make it so much harder than it needs to be. I don't need mariachi bands. I don't need special dates at go-cart arenas. I don't need you to track down my college desk—or my favorite perfume from high school or my grandfather's medical text. I just need you, House."

When she went to place the bandage on his forehead, he grabbed her wrist.

"I love you so much," he said, looking at her.

"I know you do, House," she said. She pressed the bandage over his eye. "Let's go to bed."

#######

Two days later, House got home from work. Rachel was on the floor, playing with the nanny.

"Howse!" she said when she saw him. "Is your boo boo better?"

"Grown men don't get boo boos, kid," he said. "We get ruggedly macho scars."

"Howse has a macho car!" Rachel told her nanny.

"Um, not quite."

The nanny chuckled a bit. "Scar, silly. Not car."

"Where's Dr. Cuddy?" he asked her.

"Taking a bath," she said.

House stepped into the bedroom and then the master bath. Cuddy was immersed in a pool of bubbles. Her eyes were closed. Tantalizingly, the slope of her breasts were visible just above the water line.

"Hey," he said, kneeling next to the tub, taking her in.

"Hi," she said, opening her eyes.

"How are you?"

"Very very relaxed," she said.

"Good," he said. "You deserve it."

"Yes, I do," she said.

He reached for one of her sudsy feet in the tub and began to massage it. He pressed it up against his chest. His shirt was getting wet.

She closed her eyes again, accepting his ministrations without question.

"I heard from Sanford Wells today," she said after a few minutes.

House cringed.

"And?" he said, kissing her foot and dropping it back into the tub. He reached for the other one.

"He said you called to apologize. He said, and I quote, 'I never thought I'd live to see the day that Gregory House admitted he was wrong about something. You must be a good influence on him.'"

"You are," House said, smiling slightly, kneading her heel.

"So did you make any _other _calls?" Cuddy asked, leadingly.

"Yes, I called all 20 boardmembers to apologize."

Cuddy nodded, impressed. Then she squinted at him.

"Including Jake. Jr.?"

He sighed.

"Yes, even Chester the Molester."

"He was not molesting me!" she protested. "He was very polite."

"Please. His hands did more roaming than Verizon on a cruise ship," House said.

Cuddy chuckled.

"Well, thank you for apologizing. I know that wasn't easy for you."

"No, it most certainly was not."

Then House remembered why he had come into the bathroom in the first place.

"I made something for you," he said. He reverentially kissed her other foot and placed it back in the tub. Then he pulled a shiny object out of his knapsack. "Congratulations on this distinguished honor."

It was a dime-store trophy, bearing the inscription: "World's Best Boss." House had doctored it with paint so it now read: "World's Best Boss/Girlfriend."

"I searched far and wide but they didn't make any trophies with that particular insignia," he said.

Cuddy chuckled. Reached for the trophy with a soapy hand.

"I will treasure it for . . .hours," she said.

"Hey!" he laughed. "A lot of thought went into that."

"I can see," she teased. Then she contemplated the trophy again. "I'm just kidding. I actually love it."

"Yeah?" he said, cocking an eyebrow. "Enough that maybe I can . . .?" He eyed the tub hopefully.

"Too soon," she said.

"Crap," he said, dejectedly. "It was worth a shot."

Then she laughed.

"Alright, you pain in the ass. Lock the door and get in."

THE END


End file.
